Dr. Blather You know, and this may be interpreted as an insult, or what have you... But I assure you it's not! Just a personal opinion...

Anyways, and...I have never heard anyone say what I'm about to say... (except myself!) and I may be ostracized for not conforming to worldly views of popular art and poetry...
but.. (come on, say it already!)
Well, I feel that...

Edgar Allen Poe really sucks!

There I said it! Ok maybe not "sucks" but is definitely way overrated!
blather spell check At least spell his name right.


It's Allan, not Allen.
Jeca well, i can see how really dark stuff like that wouldn't be your style. i love reading something that'll run a chill up your spine! 021117
survivor of a premature burial Hmm, so lemme get this straight?

just because his writing doesn't conform to your "don't worry, be happy" philosophy, he sucks?


the man endured genuine spiritual and emotional torment and it coloured what he wrote, he watched his wife die of tuberculosis while she was still young and in addition to being endlessly aggrieved by this, he suffered a condition which left him largely intolerant to alcohol (which perpetuated the myth that he was a raging lush when in fact he was a catastrophic lightweight) he was sickly and not cut out for much other than his literary pursuits

but i suppose things like that are no excuse for not being a little bluebird of happiness, a well spring of giggles and bits of good cheer

if you don't like him, don't read him. just stick to those god-awful "chicken soup for ..." books you seem more partial to and leave old Edgar alone, why don't you?
Dr. Blather lol...

Touched a nerve, eh?

Well, now let's rip it right open, shall we?

All people experience pain, a considerable amount.
We all choose how to deal with it...

I don't know his personal biography, and yes, I can see how experiencing those things could wither his soul down to a pile of rubbish. And if he chose to dwell on his pain instead of heal from it and learn by it, (a terrible mistake) and then he decided to write down his poetry, (a good idea)... I can understand.

But then, and here is the bulk of my point, if I even have one, which I don't since I already stated that it was my personal opinion and I don't wish to offend anyone...

,,, Then, he decided to PUBLISH it! Now, I have some poems that I've written filled with bitterness and hostility, fear and anger, [sure I wrote them in junior high, but hey]. But I don't wish others to be exposed to their negative energy... that would be irrisponsible of me... Just as I wouldn't paint a picture of a murder or diseased infant, or something. The realm of artistry is unlimited. Some people enjoy his work, I don't have a problem with that! I just think there are WAAYYYYY more gifted poets out there that can't fit into the spotlight because poe's slice of the poor_me_pie is too big.

Now... I admit that this argument is somewhat ignorant because I haven't read ALL of poe's work. And perhaps I am just missing all his really good stuff. And I don't want to be like those people who reject a Book they've never even read...

So I inivite you to post your favorite Poe_poems down here and perhaps you can change my open mind.
(NOTE: if you post The Raven I'll psychologically spank you until you cry, but then I'd have to prescibe a topical ointment and anti-cope uh, I mean anti-depressant pills.)
birdmad holy tapdancing mary magdalene on rollerblades, next thing you are going to tell me that picasso never should havepainted anything during his blue period because it was irresponsible of him to create while he was feeling so down

the man (Poe) lived in the middle of the 19th century, there weren't pill-pushing therapists on every corner with a plethora of candy coated lobotomies.

and no, not necessarily every one of his poems was based in misery, some of his stuff was also love poems and he is also credited with being the inventor of the modern detective story (The Murders in the Rue Morgue)

Interestingly enough, a fair amount of his stuff was published posthumously (after he died) so it wasn't as if he went out to a publisher and said "Hey i've got a wagon load of dark and dreary things you can foist on everyone"

no one really likes to be in pain, but if you stop and think about it, look at the volume of artistic endeavors that were borne out of pain.

your approach of discounting, deriding and discrediting anything that doesn't seem to bear the prozac-paxil-and-doctor-Phil influence of being mindlessly happy or happily mindless pays grave disrespect to many of the creations and creators of various art forms throughout history

yes, there are some great things created by those whose muses do not employ thumbscrews for inspiration, but let me ask you this, which of Shakespeare's plays are seem the most impactful, his comedies or his tragedies, have you never been moved by the sad longing of Beethovens Moonlight Sonata (i know i have been roused and rushed at the sounds of Ode to Joy even in spite of my dark attitude)

what's irresponsible is to deny the eventual upsides and creative power of pain of suffering and of misery

i would rather endure the madness and illness that moves me as something of an artist myself to create, not for my ego, but for my pleasure, for in the release of those sorrows upon the canvas or in the written word upon the page is where i find my reprieve, those little bits of remedy, and if someone else enjoys what i might create in my distress than whatever pain i may endure at the time is worth at least that

i wouldn't sacrifice my madness for the chemical numbness that so many would foolishly call "Peace of Mind" unless i was once again in the throes of addiction
i should die happier to live an abbreviated life where i got to feel and experience as much of the spectrum of things as this universe has to offer, for good and for ill than to be content to had my soul to a man in a lab-coat who can fix my imbalances

or to quote Edna St. Vincent Millay:

My candle burns at both ends
it willl not last the night
but oh, my foes
and ah, my friends
it gives such lovely light

and now if you don't mind, before i shut off my office computer and go home, i think i'm gonna drive a couple of staples into my forehead, lacerate myself with my box cutter, and then home to compose some music

and while i'm feeling a little insecure as opposed to either blindingly happy or crushingly distressed lately i am feeling a little creative

poe A Dream Within A Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow--
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone ?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand--
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep--while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

To Helen

I saw thee once--once only--years ago;
I must not say how many--but not many.
It was a July midnight; and from out
A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,
There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber,
Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand
Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe--
Fell on upturn'd faces of these roses
That gave out, in return for the love-light,
Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death--
Fell on upturn'd faces of these roses
That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted
By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.

Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
I saw thee half reclining; while the moon
Fell on upturn'd faces of these roses,
And on thine own, upturn'd--alas, in sorrow!

Was it not Fate that, on this July midnight--
Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow),
That bade me pause before that garden-gate,
To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
No footsteps stirred; the hated world all slept,
Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven!--oh, God!
How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)
Save only thee and me. I paused--I looked--
And in an instant all things disappeared.
(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)

The pearly lustre of the moon went out;
The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
The happy flowers and the repining trees,
Were seen no more: the very roses' odors
Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
All--all expired save thee--save less than thou:
Save only the divine light in thine eyes--
Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.
I saw but them--they were the world to me.
I saw but them--saw only them for hours--
Saw only them until the moon went down.
What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!
How dark a woe! yet how sublime a hope!
How silently serene a sea of pride!
How daring an ambition! yet how deep--
How fathomless a capacity for love!

But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,
Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;
And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained .
They would not go--they never yet have gone.
Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
They have not left me (as my hopes have) since.

They follow me--they lead me through the years.
They are my ministers--yet I their slave.
Their office is to illumine and enkindle--
My duty, to be saved by their bright light,
And purified in their electric fire,
And sanctified in their Elysian fire.
They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope),
And are far up in heaven--the stars I kneel to
In the sad, silent watches of my night;
While even in the meridian glare of day
I see them still--two sweetly scintillant
Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!

Sonnet--to Science

Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise?
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek treasure in the jewelled skies,
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath a tamarind tree?

The Conqueror Worm

Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly--
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!

That motley drama--oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!--it writhes!--with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And the angels sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

Out--out are the lights--out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
And the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.


Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
With drowsy head and folded wing,
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy lake
To me a painted paroquet
Hath been--a most familiar bird--
Taught me my alphabet to say,
To lisp my very earliest word
While in the wild wood I did lie,
A child--with a most knowing eye.

Of late, eternal Condor years
So shake the very Heaven on high
With tumult as they thunder by,
I have no time for idle cares
Through gazing on the unquiet sky.
And when an hour with calmer wings
Its down upon my spirit flings--
That little time with lyre and rhyme
To while away--forbidden things!
My heart would feel to be a crime
Unless it trembled with the strings.
a poe perch there was a time in this world when humans thought their sadness should signify something. when you recognize your madness in another person's words, when you see that pains are not always a malfunction, but the appropriate response often in a world of theivery and half love, it brings you a little bit of peace. if you write out and scream to another for that recognition you are an artist. most people just lock themselves up in a sitcom, or a bottle of prescription pills. to find meaning in something despite the discomfort, to find its expression meaningful is brave and useful and artistic. 021118
poe perch and if you think you're the first to criticize poe check the records. he was taken as a lightweight in his time. but people kept relating to the unrelenting sing song sadness in his poems, and he eventually became reknowned in his own way. but no one's ever claimed him a t.s eliot (who people have a pluthra of their own personal opinions on as well) 021118
Dr. Blather I heard he was a cocaine addict... 041210
iNsEcUrE_GoTh_GiRl i am currently studying the_fall_of_the_house_of_usher in my english class, and i find his language sometimes quite hard to interpret... i am quite intelligent so it isn't that i'm stupid.

i can't say that i actually like his work (not yet, anyway), but the way in which he has written this story is really clever - the more that you think about it, the more implausible and scary it is.

although i don't like what i have read so far, i respect his writing technique because the guy knows how to hook an audience, and i would like to learn how he does it.

people - if you like his work then that's cool.
if you don't, don't assume that it's shit.
there's good an bad in eberything, and although i have found myself ranting back in the form of being a peacemaker or whatever again, i don't really care, but it annoys me that if people don't like things they dismiss them as irrelevant or pointless.

rant over *yawn* i'm tired now.
where's my vodka
IGG yeah everything* too

i should look at the screen when i type
stork daddy i think i was poe perch. haha...damn blather aliases. 041210
monee i just read recently about his supposed alcohol intolerance.
glad someone mentioned it here.
monee they say he had a brain lesion 041212
monee i wonder if he had me/cfs 041212
monee 'cause a great many people with me/cfs have alcohol intolerance and brain lesions...and heart troubles, etc.) 041212
monee any which way, he was a great writer 041212
u24 'tid true. 041213
u24 'tis true. 041213
u24 ahem.

'tis true.
oldephebe "drag out his wagon of the dark and dreary" nice one birdmad.

I like Poe. I think he was brilliant. I don't read him enough. I feel inspired when I read him. A few months back I missplaced this compendium I have of his stuff and I've been kinda of missing it. It's nice being able to take a swim in the melancholy waters of his mind. I mean he knew what it felt like to have worms feeding on your soul, your once "Hey I can see your soul glowing" kinda luminescence.

Hey cadaver. what's the matter? I can't see your soul glow any mo'.

Poe is the distant cousin of this southern poet. It seems that the enitre family was afflicted with melancholy.

Any hooo I dig Poe.
.. .. ... Hey! He's being erudite out of spite!

OOO that's a hangin' where I'm from.
Fearless Leader the bells.

hear the sledges with the bells, silver bells.
what a world of merryment their melody fortells.
how they tinkle tinkle tinkle in the icy air of night
while the stars that oversprinkle all the heavans seem to twinkle with a crystaline delight.
keeping time time time in a sort of runik rhym
with the tintinibulation that so musicaly wells
from the bells bells bells bells bells
from the jingeling and the tinkeling of the bells.

hear the melow wedding bells, golden bells
what a world of happyness their harmony fortells,
from the molten golden notes
and all in tune
what a liqued ditty floats to the turtle dove that listens while she gloats
on the moon
oh from out the sounding cells, waht a gush of euphony volumusly wells
how is swells how it dwells
on the futer how it tells
of the rapture that inpells
to the swinging and the ringing
of the bells bells bells
of the bells bells bells bells bells
of the rhyming and the chimeing of the bells

hear the loud alarm bells brazen bells.
what a tale of terror now their turbulency tells
in the starlted ear of night
how they scream out their affright
too much horrified to speak, they can only shreik shriek
out of tune
in a clamorus appealing to the mrecy of the fire
in a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
leaping hire higher higher higher
with a desperate desire and a resolute endover
now, now or never, by the sid eof the pale faced moon.
oh the bells bells bells
waht a tale their terror tells of despair
how they clang and clash and roar
what a horror they outpour on the busom of the panpipulating air
yet the ear distincly knows
in the twanging and the claging
how the danger ebbs and flows
yet the ear distinctly tells
in the clanging and the jangeling
how the danger sinks and swells
by the sinking and the swelling in hte anger of the bells
of the bells
of the bells bells bells bells bells
in the clammor and the clanor of the bells

hear the tolling of the bells
iron bells
what a world of solom though their monody compels
in the silence of the night, how we shiver with affright
at the meloncoly meanice of their tone
for every note that floats from the rust within their throught is a groan
and the people ah the people they that dwell up in the steeple all alone
and who tolling tolling in that muffeled monotone
feel a glory in so rooling on the human heart a stone
they are neiter man nor woman
they are neiter brute nor human
they are gous
and their king it is who tolls
and he rolls rolls rolls rolls rolls
a paen from the bells
and he danced and he yells
kepping time time time
in a sort of runic rhym
with the rolling of the bells
with the bells bells bells
to the tolling of the bells
keeping time time time
as the knells knells knells
in a happy runic rhym
with the sobbing of the bells
of the bells bells bells
of the bells bells bells bells bells
of the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
Fearless Leader that was from memmory, so the spelling, lines, and a few of the words are off. 041221
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